


The Steward of Schloss Reise

by GoodGuyJean (orphan_account)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aged Up, Bad german, Ghost Armin, Ghost Sex, Haunted Houses, Jearmin - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Modern AU, Shower Sex, anal penetration, bad Latin, because i'm stuck in canon, because this is very porn-y I'm going to tag the sex acts, canon-ish plot starting in chapter two sorry, i'm also gonna tag problematic eren again, jearmaween 2019, porn with plot because I can't help myself, so there's like, spoopy, the ghost sex you didn't know you needed?, these tags are gonna be out of order and weird haha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-07 22:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21225551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/GoodGuyJean
Summary: After graduating college, a lonely and lost Jean Kirstein goes to work as a groundskeeper at a ruined German castle with a series of ghost stories attached to it. Initially an unbeliever, Jean has an intense encounter with someone from the other side . . . and will have to unravel the mysteries of his past if he wants them to have a future together.Written for Jearmaween 2019 based on a series of prompts!Incredible special thanks to MirandaFandomette for their illustrations and their collaboration with me on many aspects of this fic!!





	1. Act I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean receives an odd proposition . . . and takes it.
> 
> For the prompts haunted places/mythical creatures for the first day of Jearmaween 2019!

[](http://zupimages.net/viewer.php?id=19/44/7znm.jpg)

I've struck out.

To be honest, I strike out a lot here. My German still isn’t very good, so I’m wary of chatting up locals, and there weren’t any English-speaking tourists out tonight. I suppose they all want to spend Oktoberfest in cities like Hamburg or Lübeck, where the real parties are, not in a haunted castle in the middle of the wilderness. Ymir tells me the season will pick up a bit once we get closer to Halloween (not a big thing in Germany, but that apparently doesn’t stop touristy Americans from trying to celebrate it abroad anyway), but that’s still a ways off and I’m hurting for company on cold nights like tonight.

Well, for human company, anyway.

You’d think living in a castle would be a pretty swaggy life, but let me tell you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Well, technically I don’t actually live in the castle proper. It’s mostly a ruined mess (how exactly it got ruined is a mystery for the historians to argue over; aliens have been suggested), and what isn’t in shambles has either been turned into a museum or a party space for disgustingly rich donors. Instead, I live in a poorly insulated nineteenth-century cottage with spotty WiFi and faucets that stick. It’s the old groundskeeper’s residence, which fits, I guess, since I, well, keep the grounds. Not all on my own, but I’m the live-in person who fixes electric problems and pulls up weeds. I don’t get to touch the old stuff, and I’m not the security guard (he lives down in the village and if I hear a break in, I’m supposed to call him), but I do get to sleep here.

Lucky me.

Moving out here seemed like a great idea when I was struggling to find a long-term job after college and my boyfriend broke up with me. My mom suggested I go visit my French cousins for a change of pace this summer, and they had a contact in Schleswig-Holstein (yeah, I had to Google it too—the peninsula between Germany and Denmark) looking for some manual labor. Because a lot of international ghost enthusiasts come here, they like to have an English-speaking staff, and often hire foreigners for stints of a couple years. So, here I am, miles and miles away from my ex and holding down a job . . . and pretty fucking lonely and lost still.

Coming back to my cottage feels like a real walk of shame. I’d so rather be walking home from someone else’s house in the wee hours of the morning, having had at least some tiny moment of connection. Instead, here I am, stumbling into my kitchen, a little tipsy from the beers I had to drown my sorrows at the local _Kneipe_, swearing as I turn the tap for a glass of water and the fucking water doesn’t run. God, I need to fix that.

“You came back,” a whispery voice says from directly behind me. “I was not sure you would return tonight."

I don’t startle and I don’t turn around because I know who it is.

It’s Herr Armin, _Schloss_ (“castle”) Reise’s infamous ghost.

Instead, I grunt and twist the tap as hard as I can; the water explodes out of it and splashes into my face.

Fuck my life.

Right, so. Let me explain the ghost. Here’s the spiel we give tourists: Schloss Reise has foundations that date back to the eleventh century, but it was expanded significantly in the late thirteenth century by the lords Jäger. That’s why the remains of the castle are classic examples of Gothic architecture etcetera, etcetera. Then, in 1351, something destroyed most of the castle and the Jäger line disappeared, but no contemporary chronicles mention what happened to them or the castle. Leading historians think they were wiped out by a political rival who then suppressed the story. The ruins disappeared from history until they became a popular attraction for eighteenth-century emos and goths, who were the first to record legends of a ghost associated with the place. They imagined a lady who died waiting for her lover, destroyed by his vengeful rival. Who knows where they got this story, but it stuck, despite the fact that the last recorded person to manage this place was Herr Eren Jäger, not a lady. We still tell the tourists the ghost story though because they eat that shit up, murmuring excitedly about how they feel her cold hand on their backs and gasp when their phone reception dies in the room where she supposedly used to sleep. They murmur in a more hostile “let-me-see-your-manager” manner when their phones disappear for a bit because of the _real _ghost.

Personally, I’ve always been a skeptic. There’s no god, there’s no magic, there’s no fate, and there sure as hell aren’t any ghosts. There’s just this weird thing we call life on this tiny blue dot on the edge of our far-flung galaxy. Believe whatever makes you feel better; I feel better accepting the bleak truth. Or, at least, I did, until a translucent man in tunic and hose appeared in my kitchen one day and scared the shit out of me.

“Armin,” I splutter, water dripping down my face as manage to turn off the faucet. “No offense, but could I have some privacy? I’m moping.”

Armin crosses his thin arms over his little chest. “You are always moping.”

“Touché.”

I’m sure you have a lot of questions. What does a ghost look like, for starters? Well, this ghost is human-sized and shaped (so, not those weird people in sheets from _Scooby Doo_), and like, when he’s in my house, he tends to be kinda solid; just a bit see-through with grey edges. Armin says this is because the cottage is built on the ruins of his old quarters. He was the steward here back in his day, apparently. If he goes other places, he gets fainter, and, very importantly, he cannot leave the grounds.

Armin himself is a small man with a blond bowl cut (significantly more in fashion during his time than ours). It was a bit difficult to know his age until he told me because he has kind of a round, childish face and big eyes, but the most serious (and thick!) eyebrows you will ever see. He’s “twenty-one winters” . . . or, I guess he was in 1351 when . . . whatever happened, happened. That’s right, he hasn’t told me what went down at this castle; in fact, he doesn’t like to talk about his life at all. He’s much more interested in ours . . .

“I didn’t bring you anything,” I grumble, wiping my face on a kitchen towel. It still smells like the onions I chopped for today’s lunch. Gross. I should probably wash it.

Armin “sits” on a chair near my cold fireplace, brushing ghostly wrinkles out of his short, fur-lined tunic (how does ghost fabric wrinkle anyway?). “That is fine. Do you have any new stories about the villagers? Did Klaus come back from his trip to the sea?”

My mouth twitches in spite of myself. For some peculiar reason, Armin is obsessed with the ocean. He tries to hide it, but when I checked out a bunch of oceanography and marine biology books for him from the local library one time, he nearly burst into tears, he was so happy.

I sit on the bench across from him and take off my boots. “No, Klaus isn’t back yet. But I can ask him for some pictures, if you’d like?”

“Yes!” Armin says, sitting up with excitement before he catches himself and forces a more neutral expression. “It is nice to have many different windows to the world, although I make do with Google.”

“Okay, I’ll text him.” Old man Klaus is one of the few locals with decent enough English to talk with me, but his main interests are fishing and hunting. It’s lucky for Armin though; he’s a prime source of ocean pictures.

“Thank you,” Armin sits back in his chair and considers me with those almost eerie blue eyes of his. (A ghost, eerie? Who’d have thought?)

I throw down a boot with a little more force than necessary, just to get some of my grumpiness out of me. “Okay, now will you let me mope?” I sigh. “It’s nothing against you, it’s late and I want to crash.” Actually, I want to eat the chips (_die_ _Kartoffelchips_) I have stashed somewhere and then maybe masturbate in consolation for my loneliness . . . I have to admit, it has occurred to me that because Armin can walk through walls, maybe my “private time” isn’t always as private as I’d like it to be, but at least he always _disappears_ when I tell him I’m going to sleep. But he must be able to turn invisible, because no one besides me has seen him. I tried bringing up to Ymir one time that maybe the ghost wasn’t a lovelorn woman, and she outright laughed in my face. For some reason he’s picked me to haunt, and I can’t quite figure out why . . .

Armin shifts in his chair. Why he chooses to “sit” I don’t know; maybe to make me more comfortable?

“May I ask . . . why are you moping tonight?”

I sigh and rub the back of my neck. I can’t explain this to a medieval man . . . can I? Maybe if I couch it . . . it seems like the only way to get him to leave me to my own devices.

“Er, well, you see . . . I was looking for, uh, romance and there was no one who was particularly interesting . . .”

“Ah, yes, it is what I guessed.” Armin’s face is unreadable, stiff. He gets like that often. “You sometimes go to the village and do not return until the next morning. Or, you used to, but not so much these weeks.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you . . . tracking me, Herr Armin?”

It’s hard to tell on his ghostly face, but I think I see the faintest hint of a blush? (Can ghosts blush? . . . I mean, he doesn't have blood . . . )He looks away quickly. “I am just curious . . .”

I sigh and lay back on the bench. Clearly, he’s not ready to leave. The pathetic chip-and-masturbation session will have to wait. But maybe if Armin is in the mood for a late-night chat . . . “Can I ask you something?”

“You may ask.”

I snort. “Cheeky. Fine, you don’t have to answer or anything. But I’ve been wondering . . . why me? I mean, you’ve been here for hundreds of years, I can’t be the only person you’ve appeared to, right?”

Silence. I roll on my side, towards him, the wooden bench creaking underneath me. Fuck, this thing is uncomfortable. I wish I could move to my bed, but it feels a bit awkward while he’s here, for some reason. Too intimate, maybe? Though he is basically my housemate at this point . . .

Armin is examining at his pointy-toed shoes, scuffing them into the flagstone floor. I blink at him in surprised.

“Wait . . . _am_ I the first person you’ve appeared to? Really?”

“You are the first interesting person who has lived in this house, where it is easiest for me to, um, appear visibly. Well, there were those witch ladies several decades ago, they were intriguing, but they spent a lot of time in the woods, so I could not reach them easily . . . so yes, you are the first person I have allowed to see me.”

“Why?” I can’t help but ask, incredulous. Me? Of all the people who must have passed through here in the intervening years? Lonely, grumpy, miserable, average, me?

Armin hesitates. “You are . . . well, you are about my age, and you do not spend all your time drinking or partying like the others who work here. You read, you watch interesting things on the computer. I must confess, I looked through your belongings, and I particularly liked the flat computer with all of the stories inside it.”

“So, it was you!” I gasp, pointing an accusatory finger. “You kept moving my Kindle and changing where I was in the books!”

He looks a little embarrassed. “Yes, I am sorry, it was not very polite of me, but I was not used to actually confronting humans and then from reading everything you had and watching you for a while I decided to try . . . you seemed as if you could, um, handle the oddness of my existence.”

I wave off his apology with a hand. “I thought the damn thing was glitching, er, broken.” Armin has fantastic English (picked up from centuries of tourists, he tells me), but sometimes he doesn’t always get modern words. “It’s better if it’s just haunted.”

“I do not ‘haunt’ things,” Armin scoffs. “I just exist.”

“You haunt me,” I tease, unable to hide a smile. Okay, I admit it. I was grumpy at first that he wouldn’t let me mope, but now I’m strangely flattered that after centuries of secrecy, Herr Armin decided to appear to me. Because I could "handle his oddness."

“I do not . . .” Armin takes a deep breath. It always weirds me out and fascinates me at the same time when he does that. Why would a ghost breathe? In the dim lighting of my cottage, he looks almost solid, almost human . . . I can see the threads in his wool tunic and the faint glint of a gold chain around his neck . . . “Jean, did you mean to find a partner for s-sport, um, tonight?”

Sport? I frown. “I don’t play sports at all, why the fuck would I play them at night?”

“Ah, no.” I’ve never seen Armin this awkward before. He’s twisting his hands in his lap, his blond hair falling across his face. I mean, he’s pretty reserved and awkward generally, but this . . . “What I am asking is, were you looking for intercourse?”

Oh.

I feel the heat in my face and take a second to brush some imaginary dirt of my jeans. Well, I guess medieval people could be pretty forward after all.

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t find anyone soooo . . . yeah, I’m just that pathetic, now you know.”

“You are not!” He reassures me, a little too quickly. I shoot him a smile, but maybe it comes out as a wince.

“S’okay, you can rub it in. I know I haven’t much luck finding someone to . . . be with, here. It’s just hard, you know, my German is so rusty and I don’t speak Danish or Frisian at all. I can speak a bit of French, but not a lot of French tourists hanging around these days. My old friend Reiner would say that you don’t need to know words besides, ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘good,’ and 'stop,' for sex, but I kinda . . . I dunno. Ah, forget it.”

I roll over again and turn my back to him. I was about to say ‘I kinda want to connect with someone,’ but that sounds so . . . needy. Not that I can’t admit that I’m needy, just . . . I’m not used to being vulnerable with a ghost!

There’s a long pause. I’m almost tempted to look over my shoulder to see if he’s disappeared. Then he speaks again, “Would . . . would you like to try having, um, sex with me?”

My pulse spikes and I’m so startled I fall of the bench, swearing as I hit the hard stone floor. What the fuck? _What_ the fuck? What the _fuck_?

A ghost.

A _male medieval ghost._

Just asked.

To have sex. 

With.

Me.

_Me!_

What _the fuck_??

“Is that even like, _possible_?” I gasp, clutching my dinged side. “I’ve walked through you before!”

Armin erupts from his chair and begins pacing. “I have been . . . experimenting with manifesting myself. As you already know, I have more a . . . presence, in this room, and . . . well, I manifest myself to pick things up, just like a hand or a piece of me . . . I think I could . . . manifest, um . . .”

“An erection?” I offer, dizzy that we’re even having this conversation.

“Er, yes. Among other things . . .”

I sit up and gape at him, trying to imagine it. He’s a ghost, so I’d never considered the possibility before . . . but he is . . . pretty handsome, actually, and well . . . present. . .

“What, uh, other things?” I find myself asking.

_Fuck, am I seriously considering this?? _

Armin stops in his tracks and looks down at me from under his lashes. It’s kinda . . . hot . . . no, what? No, I’m not thinking . . . well, why not . . . ?

He takes a cautious step towards me. “Well, hands, obviously. And lips . . . my tongue . . . my teeth . . .”

I don’t move as he comes to me, crouching to my level. Wow, his eyes are blue, and the tip of his button nose has a bit of cute redness to it . . . I have to admit, he does look, solid . . . just faint around the edges . . . and, as if to prove himself, he raises a hand to my cheek.

It’s cold as death.

But it’s soft like skin. And I desperately want to feel someone’s skin against mine right now.

“Fuck it,” I say, and lean forward to kiss his pink lips.

And he responds, pressing back against me, so cold but also so solid and real.

I’m kissing a ghost.

Fuck, I’m kissing a ghost.

I’m kissing a ghost and his mouth his moving against mine, while his other hand reaches for my shoulder.

Hey, I’m kissing someone who apparently wants to kiss me, and it feels good! That’s all that matters, right?

Armin trembles a little as he moves a hand to my neck, brushing his icy fingertips against my exposed skin there. I moan at being held in place for a kiss, and he stiffens. For a brief second, I worry that my little noise has disturbed whatever the hell is happening here, but then he presses closer to me and sticks a very solid feeling tongue into my mouth.

This is where it starts to feel a little less . . . human. His tongue is real except for its extreme coldness, even a bit damp, but it doesn’t exactly taste like anything. He also has no smell, and his chest is well . . . squishy . . . amorphous . . . against mine. It’s odd but . . . oddly pleasant, actually? One his firm hands holds the back of my head while the other holds my cheek and he straddles my lap, there and yet yielding. When his tongue licks against the roof of my mouth, I groan and clutch at his waist, my fingers encountering something . . . present . . . but jelly-like? Is this what they call ectoplasm? Well, I don’t hate it, definitely not when Armin is kissing me so desperately, leaning forward into it so that he pushes me down to the floor.

We break apart when he’s over me, the less-solid parts of his body almost blurring into mine, making me shiver but . . . in an erotic way? He’s panting (fascinating), his eyes heavily lidded and his face flushed. “I . . . can do it,” he gasps. “I can feel . . .”

Carefully, I reach up to touch his face. He closes his eyes. Woah, that’s . . . intense actually. I certainly feel myself hardening . . . can he feel me, can he feel my erection pressing into his jelly presence . . . ? I move my hand to his chest, lingering at where a nipple might be on a corporeal human. Experimentally, I brush him there, my fingers trailing against the iced surface of his body. He bites his lip, eyelids fluttering.

“Can you feel that?” I ask, my voice a bit hoarse. Although I already suspect the answer, my stomach flips when he nods.

“Y-yes. If I f-focus.” I brush harder and he gasps, his forehead leaning down to mine. I raise my head up to kiss his cheek, then his neck. It’s cold and a little less solid than his face . . . curious, I nip it gently . . . and yelp as the cold shocks my teeth!

“J-Jean? Are you okay?” Armin peers down at me anxiously; his concerned frown would be kinda adorable if my teeth didn’t hurt!

“It’s, ah! So cold . . . like biting ice-cream . . . um, have you had that, actually?”

“I’m sorry,” Armin says, sitting back on my hips . . . actually he slides right through my hips and I gasp—his chill really is erotic. He looks abashed though, like he’s done something wrong. I rush to reassure.

“No, it’s not . . . it feels good, just . . . I won’t bite anymore, haha! But maybe you could, er, try biting me? I’m . . . curious.”

He blinks at me, then grins. I’ve never seen such an open expression on him before, it has an peculiar effect on my chest, making it feel tight. “I like that about you, that you’re curious,” he says, leaning over me again. As he does so, his clothes melt away, revealing his thin bare chest, with a faint happy trail that leads my eyes all the way to his . . . penis. His half-erect, ethereal penis.

“N-neat trick,” is all I can manage in a squeaky voice. He grins again, then bends to softly kiss my neck as his other hand slides _through _my t-shirt to press insistently on my own nipple.

My head lolls back against the cold stone floor, my back arching up into Armin’s body even as he holds me down. _He’s done this before_, I think, _maybe not with his ghost body but . . . he’s so confident._

And I have to say, I like it. I was feeling lonely and pathetic, but here Armin is clearly enjoying my body, moaning as he sucks on my neck. And then it happens; the frozen prick of his teeth.

I cry out, arching again. This only encourages Armin, and he bites harder as I thrash underneath him. Between his mouth, his hands, and the crazy intensity of some of his body sliding into mine, my dick is starting ache.

“Ar . . . Armin!” I gasp out. “C-can . . . can you touch me?”

He obligingly moves his hand to cup the bulging front of my now uncomfortably tight jeans. As the chill of his touch ghosts (haha) against my erection, I catch his lips again, pushing my tongue into his mouth somewhat desperately. It’s . . . solid, but again strangely and pleasantly yielding, and I give an embarrassing whimper as the kiss intensifies.

And then his hand goes through my pants, encircling my dick, and I lose my concentration.

“Fuck!” I groan, hips shaking as Armin’s icy hand strokes me slowly, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Is it not right?” He asks, hand stilling as he hesitates. I emphatically shake my head.

“No . . . it’s good it’s . . . fuck!”

He kisses me again, deliberately and unhurriedly to match the pace of his stroking. When we part, he’s so flushed he almost glows. “You sound so good, you feel so good,” he murmurs against my hairline.

As I tremble under his touch, I look down to see that his penis is translucent and barely defined . . . he must not be concentrating on it . . . his hand must be taking his focus . . . wait, can ghosts come? Also, if he has to focus on his body to make it solid . . . could he make things partially solid in parts and harder in others . . . an idea occurs to me.

“A-Armin!” I pant. “Armin, would you . . . could you try, ah! Um, f-fucking me maybe?”

Armin’s hand slows a bit. “Sodomy?” he asks, as if tasting the word. I wince.

“Er, we don’t really call it that anymore . . . we call it a-anal . . . anal sex . . . but yeah, I guess. I was thinking . . . maybe it would be, uhhh . . . ah! Easier to t-take a ghost dick, haha! But also . . . maybe we could feel something at the same time?”

Armin stops his hand (I kinda regret it, even though I was almost too close) and looks down at his own crotch area thoughtfully. “That could be . . . interesting. But I still think it would be easier if you were on your knees, and that would be easier on the bed.”

I chuckle weakly, stomach swooping at the thought that we’re actually going to try this . . . it has been a while since anyone but me put anything inside my ass. “You’re so considerate.”

“Well, I am the steward. I have to be considerate,” Armin smiles at me. My heart twists. Uh oh . . . I don’t like that. The last time my heart twisted was with—

“Steward of my ass!” I blurt, reflexively needing the joke to change the mood. Armin raises his eyebrows, then gets off of me. Warmth comes flooding back to my veins all at once and I gasp. What a sensation! So many possibilities with Armin . . .

“Get to the bed,” he says, pointing to it with an imperious finger. I scoff at his bossiness but comply, privately enjoying it. This is the most fun I’ve had during sex for, well, a while.

With a ghost, of all people!

On my way to the bed, I haphazardly strip off my clothes, flinging them unceremoniously to the floor. Armin is already naked, after all, so it’s only fair. I then practically throw myself on top of the blanket, rolling onto my knees and almost sticking my butt in the air before I become a bit too self-conscious. Armin follows me, laughing with his odd echoing voice. I like it, I find. I wish he would laugh more often.

He comes behind me bends over my back to kiss my neck. I gasp and shiver as the boundary between our skin blurs once more. As he nips and sucks my neck, I feel the press of something against my asshole. Not his dick yet; a finger. He’s preparing me. Is that necessary for ghostly material? I decide I don’t care as soon as he pushes inside me, solid and yet bending to fit within me. I groan as he rocks it gently deeper inside, filling me with one hand while the other gropes to find my nipple.

“Ohhh fuck,” I grunt, burying my face in the pillow. “Uh, uh, d-deeper? Please.”

I hear Armin breathe in sharply (still so weirdly human to breathe) behind me as he obliges, feeling around until he brushes up against—

“AH!!” I nearly scream, my body shaking as he finds my prostate. “Armin! N-not too much . . . j-just a bit.”

He pulls back a bit then presses a bit more gently. I swallow down a sob. Fuck that feels good—I feel myself stretching to accept him, but with his ghostly fingers it’s not too much of a strain and . . . “H-how many fingers?” I gasp out, feeling my drool seeping into the pillow under my face.

“Uh . . . perhaps three?” He chuckles, but his voice sounds hoarse. “I am just shaping myself to fit you.”

I groan. “C-can . . . can you shape your dick to do that? W-would ah! Would it still f-feel?”

“Maybe,” Armin breathes. I cry out as suddenly I’m empty, his essence disappearing from me, but then I shudder when I feel his firm, frozen, fingers on my hips. Then it happens, a new, bigger press, Armin leaning over me with a sigh as he pushes into me, letting out a long, low noise as he enters me again. I whimper in a very undignified manner, my fingers gripping the sheets. His dick, while still ghostly and obviously curving to fit me, is still bigger than his fingers. It doesn’t quite hurt exactly to take it, but we sit together for a moment as we breath and adjust.

Then he begins to move. Slowly, almost shyly, his body stiff above mine—but still, it’s such an overwhelming sensation that I have to stop myself from grabbing my dick and exploding right there. His grip slides on my hips as he starts to thrust a little faster, a little deeper . . . and by slides, I mean his fingers slide through my skin has his concentration slips. I cry out and he moans, picking up his pace a bit more.

“Fuck, fuck, Ar-Armin!” I call, too far gone to be embarrassed to say his name. He leans closer to me, his skin blending with mine. I groan. Shit, it feels so good, like he’s . . . so close, almost too close, so close it hurts, and yet . . . I find pleasure in this pain, as his body seeps further into mine, his dick seemingly like the only solid thing within me right now, pressing deeper and faster.

“Ohhhh noooo,” he whispers in my ear. “Nooo, nonononono!”

I can’t stand it, it’s too intense. Hand shaking, I grip myself and start to stroke my dick, tears welling in my eyes as Armin’s own cock nudges against my prostrate over and over . . . it’s too much, too much!

“NO!” Armin screams suddenly, an eerie, haunting noise just as I tumble over the edge myself, the edges of my vision darkening as I come the hardest I have in a long time. My hears ring, my pulse pounds—

—when I awake—the first time I have actually awaken in many years—I am still within Jean . . . no, wait. I am Jean!

[](http://zupimages.net/viewer.php?id=19/44/6lxk.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeyyyyyyy :D Thanks so much for reading haha. I really took the prompts and started from a place of, let's try to write spoopy pwp . . . unfortunately, I can't help myself so there is plot haha. But there's smut in every chapter :) I also tried writing for first person because I thought it would be fun and demonstrate the possession . . . well, you'll see and tell me what you think!!
> 
> Thanks to mirandafomette for their drawings!! You can find them on tumblr and on ao3 under the name mirandafandomette!! (SORRY THEY'RE SO LARGE ATM I'LL WORK ON IT ACK ><)Thanks to them also for reading this fic and for their feedback!! Thanks also to the organizers at twoboys-onesoul.tumblr.com for organizing jearmaween!


	2. Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armin takes a Jean's body for a joyride and has some angsty flashbacks.
> 
> Written for the Jearmaween prompts "urban legends/folk tales" and "shared umbrella" . . . both stretched a bit. I apologize.
> 
> (. . . the smut is at the end ^^')

[](http://zupimages.net/viewer.php?id=19/44/cy86.jpg)

When I open my eyes, it is morning. I am lying on Jean’s bed, the last place I remember being, my head resting on his pillow. It’s soft against my cheek.

. . . my cheek.

I raise trembling fingers to touch my face, and I brush against cheekbones and stubble that are not usually there . . . when I have a face to touch. Shaking (oh, I can _feel_ my body shaking!), I turn to look down at myself and see, not the translucent limbs I expect, but Jean’s naked, hairy legs.

I startle, sitting up and clutching my chest, where my heart pounds with fright.

No, not _my _heart—Jean’s!

I appear to have somehow possessed Jean’s body.

I confess, I have attempted possession before. My spirit, no matter now solid I make it, is bound to the ruins of Schloss Reise, but I have theorized that if I could somehow attach myself to a living being, I could leave. Not too long after my death, some people did approach the castle—scavengers, looters. I did not care if they took whatever objects may have survived the . . . incident, so long as they also took me. By that point I had given up searching for others trapped in my state, or on escaping the castle. I had thought that perhaps if I pushed myself hard enough against the invisible barrier that kept me here, I might dissolve myself and finally earn my eternal rest. Unfortunately, nothing I tried along those lines worked, and so, forbidden death, I tried to steal some semblance of life.

It was not to be, however. Passing through the looters and sitting inside them while they slept merely frightened them; they could not see me, but they could apparently feel my unnatural chill.

They ran away as soon as they sensed me, bearing the news that the ruins were haunted. That initially brought a few priests around to exorcise the place and, as I did not yet know quite how to manifest myself to them, I tried various ways of possessing them. None of my methods worked, and the priests were more resilient than their forebears, so, more out of frustration than anything, I taught myself to manifest hands so that I could upend all their shrines and ridiculous golden relics. This had the opposite of effect of what I intended, and eventually I learned to be stagnant so they would get bored, declare the land cleansed, and move on.

For many centuries, periodically humans would come and explore again, and I would attempt to possess them, but by now I had given up. It simply did not work. I could manifest myself to a certain extent under certain conditions, but I could not take another person’s body.

Until now.

Still breathing heavily, I experimentally wiggle Jean’s toes. I can _feel_ them move in much the same way I felt my manifested body last night . . . when I had sex with Jean.

I had sex with someone for the first time in centuries, and now I am inside his body.

Jean has a mirror propped up against a wardrobe across the room from the bed. I stand up and walk over to it. As a ghost, you might suppose that nothing could unnerve me anymore, but let me assure you that it is extremely disorienting to look at yourself and see another person staring back. Especially when you have spent a good amount of time observing that person . . . admiring that person . . .

Jean is not exactly “traditionally handsome,” but I do find him striking. He is long and gangly, with a sharp, lean aspect. I am jealous of his high and prominent cheekbones, and I find his narrow, hawkish eyes intriguing. He just has this face . . . the kind of face that I think is inviting and attractive even though he often scowls. I could look at him for hours (and have done so), which is still a long time for a ghost who has been lurking around this castle for centuries. Once you have seen as many living humans as I have, its rare to find any of them significantly fascinating.

I experience a sudden stab of panic. For so long, I so desperately wanted to have a body, and I had not cared about the possibility of removing someone from theirs. Any body would have done. And now, here I am, in Jean’s, and I find myself worried that he may be gone forever.

A sickening idea occurs to me, and I spin to glance around the room. “Jean? Jean? Are _you _a spirit now?”

No answer.

I shiver and hug myself.

How strange it is to feel cold again.

Not knowing what else to do, I go to Jean’s wardrobe and pull out a pair of these odd, stiff modern trousers and a tartan button-shirt made out of some very soft material. I marvel at the feel of it between my fingers. What animal makes this, I wonder? I must ask Google when Jean gets back to turn on the computer (I can turn it on, but he won’t give me his password) . . . if Jean _can_ get back . . .where is he anyway?

I try to remember the order in which I have observed Jean put on his clothes. Undergarments, stockings, trousers, and then shirt. Everything seems to fit, though I find the blue trousers heavy and itchy. Then I comb his hair (it’s quite soft actually, though thinner than mine was when I was alive) and use the small brush he reserves for his teeth with the paste that smells like mint. It tingles in my mouth, and I nearly cry with the realization that I can taste again.

And then it really hits me.

I have a body now.

It is Jean’s body, but still . . .

_Maybe I can leave_.

My . . . no, _Jean’s_ heart pounds in his chest with_ my_ emotion. After all these centuries! I’m free!

. . . at the expense of Jean, the first human I had decided to speak to in as many centuries, and also someone with whom I had just had very nice sex. He had eased my ages of loneliness, given me information (from books, or from that "smartphone" thing all the tourists have these days) that I usually had to steal from visitors to the castle, and I had truly enjoyed his company.

“It’s cruel,” I whisper at Jean’s reflection in washroom mirror. I wince when his deep voice comes out. _Why did it have to be him, of all people, who I possessed?_

Truly, fate has never been kind to me. But I have also never been one to miss an opportunity, even if it hurts.

Setting my distress aside, I lace Jean’s feet into his boots and put on his coat and his cap. Now that I can feel cold, I should protect myself. Then I stand at the threshold to the outside world, the door to this small cottage, and take a moment to brace myself. When I finally open the door and a gust of cold wind blasts my face, I let out a small cry. It brings with it so many smells that I am instantly overwhelmed—I had almost forgotten this sensation. There’s the scent of pine bristles and wet earth, of rain and smoke . . .

. . . smoke. That was the last thing I had smelled, smothering me as I burned in that dungeon—

—no. I will not relive that. Not today, when I finally get to really live again. I gulp down several stinging breathes of air, willing myself to stay calm, and take my first cautious steps into the world.

I decide that it would probably be best to avoid anyone who could recognize Jean and sense that he is behaving oddly, such as the castle manager Ymir or any of the museum workers. I remember that while Jean is probably recognizable to the locals, he is not very good at speaking German, so they are unlikely to notice if I say something wrong. So I turn away from the castle proper and set myself down the sloping path into the village, marveling at all the strange sensations of _living_; breathing cold air that hurts, feeling your feet connect to the ground, the strange sensation of your arms swinging at your sides as you walk.

When I reach the place where I know there is an invisible barrier, I tense. I lift my leg cautiously and put one foot over the line . . . and nothing happens. I take another step, then another. My pulse thrills and I cannot contain a grin.

I am free!

As I have read all the guides the museum provides to tourists, I know that the location of the nearest village is quite similar to where it when I was alive, about half an hour from the castle on foot. I have Googled it, but it is still very strange to look down the hill and see the shape of the buildings changed. No longer wattle and daub, now brick and mortar with big glass windows. So odd and yet also this walk is so familiar . . .

_“Are you certain you trust Brother Sieg?” I ask Eren yet again as I quicken my steps to keep up with his determined stride. _

_When he answers, he does not look at me, but keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon. “He is my own half-brother, Armin. And a holy man besides.”_

_I frown. “Since when has being a ‘holy man’ made anyone trustworthy? Especially if that brother comes from a monastery supported by the Marleys?”_

_Eren snorts. “You are too cautious. Do you not want to win?”_

_From his other side, Lady Mikasa chants, “_Si non dimicat, non potest superare_.”_

_It’s the Jäger family motto: if you do not fight, you cannot win. I have always found it a little simplistic, but it is difficult to argue with their traditions. _

_“Well said, Mikasa,” Eren nods at her, though his eyes stay locked on the town below us. He breaks out into a grin. “And today, we will begin work on our great, rumbling weapon.”_

I gasp as my mind breaks free of the memory, a scene from the last time I had walked this way. It had appeared so violently, so forcefully, it had almost seemed like I was back in that moment . . .

I pick up my pace, nearly jogging the rest of the way into town. I do not want to think about that day, I do not want to be stuck in the past anymore. I want to explore the world that has been denied me while I was trapped in the ruins.

As I make it into the hamlet, I feel the first droplets threatened by the grey October sky.

Rain! I had given up on feeling rain on my skin again! Delighted by the sensation, I turn my face towards the opening sky and grin as it starts to pour down on me.

“Jean! Raus auf dem Regen! Sie werden sich erkälten!” A bearded man calls to me from a nearby building, beckoning. “Come! Get out! Don’t get a cold!”

I laugh at him, too giddy to care how much of a fool I must appear. “Alles in Ordnung! Ich liebe den Regen! Ich war noch nie gesünder!”

The man blinks at me and I immediately realize my mistake.

Jean still does not really speak German.

That is why the man repeated himself in English.

And that is why he is eyeing me with confusion right now. _And for some reason I thought that because Jean spoke less German, that would make the villagers less suspicious of me than people in the castle . . ._

“Ich habe geübt,” I try sheepishly. “Er, practicing?”

“Komm herein!”

I obey, my heart pounding anew with anxiety. I do not really know how to be Jean in front of others. I forget myself. What if I start acting too weirdly and they ask questions?

The man leads me inside and I realize this place is a tavern; cozy, dim, covered in wood. He points to a couple of young men sitting at a table in a corner by the now foggy window. “Americans.” He says, raising his eyebrows at me. He doesn’t need to say more. He wants me to talk to them.

Scheisse.

I have seen many Americans during my time at the castle and I have looked at pictures of the Americas and read books about them, as I have about many places in the world. But apart from Jean, I have never talked to them, and if I am supposed to behave _like_ one of them . . .

The man leads me to their table and introduces me. “Here is Jean! He is American, and he works at the castle!”

I square my shoulders and sit down opposite them. “Hello.”

The young men grin widely at me and I wince. Yes, I have noticed that many Americans do that. It is very off-putting because you cannot tell what they are really thinking behind that smiling mask. Jean, at least, is an anomaly in that regard; he only smiles when he wants to.

“Hey, man! How’s it going?”

“It is . . . going.” They laugh when I say it. I nod like I know what I’m doing.

They give their names (Jake and Tailor, it sounds like), and then start telling me a story about how they just happening to be “backpacking” (something to Google later) out here when they heard about Schloss Reise and the ghost.

“Yeah, she's like a crazy dumped chick, right?” One of them laughs, running his fingers through his curly blond hair.

“No, no,” the other one says, waving his hands. “She was waiting for her man, but then his best friend decided he wanted her instead, but she turned him down. So, he blew up her castle.”

I wince. Not noticing my reaction, the blond one (Tailor, I think?), laughs. “Nah, man, they didn’t ‘blow stuff up’ back then. They only had like, catapults and shit, right?” He turns to me expectantly.

I should let this go to escape more quickly, but I do not like inaccuracy. “People in the fourteenth century had many ways of destroying a castle. They understood what you would call chemistry today, also, they just had different names for substances. Sometimes they called the art ‘alchemy.’”

The two men exchange an excited look. I notice they’re sitting awfully close to each other on their little bench, their shoulders and knees brushing, and I suddenly wonder who they are to each other. And then there is an ache in my heart again as my mind inevitably turns back to Jean. _I must figure out where he went_.

“So, like, the castle blew up because of alchemy?”

“Yes,” I respond, absently, my mind still trying to think of ways I could access Jean. It has obviously been many centuries since I have been able to perform experiments, but alchemy might be one solution, actually . . . now that I had a body, maybe I could find a way to make a body for Jean or myself . . . if I could only locate his spirit.

Assuming it still existed.

“Cool! And so like, the dude blew up the castle because he couldn’t have the girl he loved?”

_I am sitting at my worktable, meticulously weighing out powders, when the door to my room bursts open behind me. I startle, but I try to hide it. I know who it is, and I do not want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he can shock me. Not right now._

_“Eren.” I say as coldly as I can manage. _

_“You cannot break your vow!” He yells. My hands shake and I put them on the table to steady them. “Not when we are so close! You want to be a Marleyan slave forever, hm?”_

_I take a deep breath and try to remember the closeness we felt as children, when I spoke to him about the amazing mysteries of the world and he seemed to understand. It is difficult to believe that he listened to me for all those years and only thought of building weapons, of destroying his enemies. Maybe I can still reach that child within him . . . I take a deep breath. _

_“Eren,” I begin, picking at my kidskin gloves. “It is not that simple. You are speaking of wanton destruction—the power this weapon could have . . . it could destroy all their fields and kill their farmers, who have never done anything to you! The land would be unusable, and so many people would die!”_

_Eren storms over to my table and slams his palm against it, rattling the jars and pots. I cringe. “This. Is. War. And real warriors will always seek revenge. This is the only way to make sure that no one survives, that we can be free of them, once and for all!” He sneers at me. “You have always been a coward, _steward_, but I thought we you at least understood the importance of efficiency.” _

_Such a rage boils within me, that I find myself standing up, my hands balling into fists._

_“What?” He scoffs. “Are you actually going to hit me? Your _lord?_ Do you not remember when we would practice fighting in the training courts? Do you truly want to suffer that humiliation again?”_

_Tears blur the corners of my eyes as my powerlessness sinks in. “I am sick of you.” I hiss, but I sit back down. “My lord.” I spit it, even though it changes nothing about my circumstances._

_“Remember your place, steward. You will thank me when you are free.”_

I gasp as I come out of this memory, shocking Jake and Tailor. One of them reaches across the table to put a hand on my shoulder, but I flinch away.

“Hey, you okay, dude? You look sick.”

I stand up abruptly, the chair clattering to floor behind me. Oh, no, everyone is looking at me now! But as I try to pick up the chair and set it right, my body resists, like it is being pulled away by another force. Suddenly, I notice an _awareness_ inside my mind, my consciousness bumping up against something else _within _me.

_Jean?_

“It wasn’t love,” I find myself saying. “It was hate.”

My heart turns cold as I realize.

Somehow, Jean is inside his body still, suppressed by my consciousness. But he is now fighting whatever bound him back, and perhaps as he struggles for control of _his_ body, our consciousnesses might be bleeding into each other . . . perhaps he has seen what I just saw . . .

Jerkily, my legs begin to move. I hold up a hand to wave goodbye to the men and to the bartender, all of whose eyes are wide with concern. “I have to go to work!” I call, one of my hands—no, _Jean’s _hands—grabbing the door handle.

“Euh, warten Sie, Jean!” The barman cries, ducking under his counter to pull out an umbrella. “It rains hard, ja? Please take it.”

I grasp it clumsily in trembling fingers.

“Danke,” I gasp out, and then suddenly I am bolting out the door and into the downpour.

I—or perhaps at this point it is more accurate to say _we_—sprint out of the hamlet and back up the hill to the castle. I feel heavy even thinking of going back, and I cannot tell if our heart races with panic or the strain of running. Perhaps both?

At the crest of the hill we pause to catch our breath, and then Jean—and it must be Jean, because I can feel my control beginning to slip—opens the umbrella and stares somberly back down at the town.

We stand in heavy silence for a few moments, and then Jean speaks. “Did you know this would happen?”

I cringe at how hurt he sounds. “N-no,” I say, the stutter odd in his voice. “I had no idea! I didn’t want this, I . . . I wanted to discover where you had gone.” _Please believe me_, I almost add, but begging sounds so insincere.

Jean nods his head. I am not sure whether or not he accepts my explanation, but he turns towards the castle. “We need to figure out how to separate.”

My emotions are mixed. Of course, I am incredibly relieved to have found Jean, but I am reluctant to separate and be stuck once again in the castle. Unless . . . perhaps if we could separate (assuming that we could figure that out) outside the castle, maybe I then I could escape . . . or am I bound there forever somehow?

“I need my body back,” Jean reminds me, and I catch the note of panic in his voice and feel the shudder run through him. He is so scared of losing control again . . . well, I can sympathize with that. Guilt weighs on me. I should have realized he was just suppressed inside me, I should have tried sooner to pull us apart again. Of course, it is exactly like me to take an opportunity to explore, no matter the consequences . . .

“Well,” I muse, beginning to pace. Jean holds the umbrella steady over us. “Sex brought us together . . . there is some kind of logic in that . . .”

Jean stops us and rubs our chin like I have seen him do countless times when he is thinking. Warmth bubbles within me when it really sinks in that I have not lost him . . . and perhaps within Jean too? Can he feel my emotions physically? Can I feel his? _Did_ he see those memories? The lack of boundaries between us suddenly makes me very uncomfortable . . . I like him, but I do not want to be _this _open—

“What if we masturbate?” he blurts.

I blink. “So, you think—”

“Yes!” he says, pacing himself now. “Think about it; we fuse during sex, or whatever, so if I wank one out, which is a single-person activity, maybe that’ll like, shock you out of my system somehow.”

“But if I am in this body, I will feel it too.”

“You’ll have to let me have control for a bit, if you can. Just like . . . sit back and watch. That’s what I was doing for a bit just now, I couldn’t control anything even though I could still see and feel and stuff. I think if you could just like . . . let go . . . and then I could, erm, have a solo experience, and then . . . well, ideally everything would be back to normal.”

Yes, normal. Where I am just a spirit stuck in the grounds of my old lord’s castle, and the only friend I have had in a while is suspicious of me because I accidentally took control of his body . . .

“I suppose it cannot hurt to try,” I say, resigning myself. _Stuck again, lost again, lonely again._

Jean nods and turns to start hiking the rest of the way up to the castle grounds.

“Where are you going?” I ask. “I thought you wanted to try—”

“I can’t get off in middle of the road in a wet forest!” Jean snaps. The abrupt loss of control on his mouth shocks me. It is almost as if . . . my presence is weakening. I feel tired . . . it is an unusual feeling, because as a ghost I do not tire or need to sleep . . . is this what it means to be within a body? Or is that it that I expend more energy than I realize to keep control of it?

As we come back onto the castle grounds, a shudder passes through me. Then Jean winces. I can tell that he felt it too, my pain and sorrow. And now I feel his confusion, his hurt at the idea of hurting me . . . _What a terrible situation this is._

I cannot tell whose thought it is.

We are just coming to the door to his cottage when a voice calls out, “Jean!”

I recognize the manager Ymir; she’s sprinting down from the castle gatehouse, and I feel Jean’s body tense as he snaps his umbrella shut. He expects a reprimand.

“Where’ve you been?” She says too cheerfully, her grin masking her irritation. She has been here for almost a decade now, and every day I have observed her has taught me to give her a wide berth. She has a tongue sharp enough to make you bleed.

I feel Jean repress a smile, and am once again unnerved that he can share my thoughts right now. _Maybe he is right, we should stop this before we blend together too much._

As Ymir gets closer, Jean begins to cough and shake. “Uh, sorry, boss. I’m—,” he gives a tremendous sneeze, and I have to admit it is pretty convincing, “—sick.”

“Uh-huh. The kind of sick where you don’t answer your text messages and I find you walking back from the village at noon? The infamous, ‘out-on-a-bender’ plague?”

Jean coughs again, grimacing. “No, boss. The kind of sick where I wake up and realize I need medicine, then run into town to get it except the pharmacy is all out of what I want, and I was so spacey because I was sick that I left my phone in my house.” He sticks his key in the lock and pushes open the door, “Care to see?”

Ymir squints suspiciously at him, and then pokes her head inside. Jean’s phone is sitting where he left it last night, on his table, plugged into the wall.

I have never seen Ymir look so embarrassed. “Er, oh. Well. Sorry.” She gives him an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Well, I’m just used to irresponsible people, I guess. There’s some medicine at the gatehouse, I can bring you some, if you’d like?”

“Yes, please,” says Jean with almost unbearable dignity. Ymir winces and turns to practically run in the opposite direction, slamming the door behind her. As soon as she disappears, Jean slumps down at this table.

“Thank fuck you forgot the phone,” he murmurs, tugging off his hat to run his fingers through his slightly damp hair. Even though he has greater control of his body right now, I can still feel how soft it is. “I’ll give her about twenty minutes to come back with something, and then we can get started.”

Get started . . . yes, right. Masturbating.

Jean, picks up his phone and flicks through it, flinching at messages he has from Ymir, another from his mother. I am reminded of how much of his life I do not really see, and I feel a bit disconnected from him. Maybe that is good? Maybe we need to feel disconnected right now. Then he opens a separate his internet browser and begins typing, “queerhub fingering then doggy style”

“What are you doing?”

“What?” Jean grumbles at me. “I need something to think about while I . . . you know.”

I startle. “Oh, it is talking about sex?”

There is a rap on the door; Ymir is back. When Jean opens the door for her, she shoves a few bottles into his hands and then abruptly turns and leaves, obviously still embarrassed for harassing him. Jean sets all of the medications on the table, and turns back to his phone. “Okay, I’m gonna get out of all this damp shit, and then I’ll get started.”

He makes sure all his curtains are pulled closed, and then we go to the bathroom, where he takes a good long look at himself in the mirror. I take the opportunity to stare with him. He is . . . very handsome. With a stab of guilt, I hope that he will not reject me after we separate . . . if we separate . . .

. . . it occurs to me that we will never have sex again. Jean will not want to risk it, and who could blame him? But it was so nice . . . the way he felt around me (when I could feel), the way his pillow muffled his cries, the way I had started melt into him as I pushed inside him . . .

Abruptly, Jean leaves the little room to sit on his bed, tugging of his boots first, then stripping off his shirt and his pants until he is only wearing his stockings and under clothes. I look down with him at his fingers as he begins to touch his nipples lightly, wincing with a mixture of pleasure and pain at the coldness of his own touch, and then, still _with _him, I experience the spark of desire in his abdomen.

He leans back against the wall, pressing both his nipples now. His eyes close as he lets out a soft sigh, the body starting to relax into his touch. It is at the moment that I remember, “What about your phone?” I say, and his eyes flicker open. “You wanted to look at something on it, right?”

There is a long pause. “I changed my mind.” He mumbles, then pinches his nipples and bites his lips.

I know I am supposed to be trying to distance myself from Jean while he does this, but it is hard. Even when he has more control, I still _feel _him, and our emotions bump up against each other, blurring. In experiencing him touching his own body, in hearing the soft noises he starts to make, and sensing him harden beneath his underwear, I am forcibly reminded we had sex and . . . I am overwhelmed and curious. As he touches his dick through his smallclothes and begins to pant, I find myself imagining that it is me touching him . . . or is _he _imagining that? I think a surprising amount about the coldness of my hands, how wonderful that might feel against his warm, soft skin, and he moans.

_I want Jean_.

It is hard to care about the experiment and separating when I can feel Jean’s hand slip into his underwear and grasp himself, when I can actually touch how wet he is, and when I keep experiencing flashbacks to the sex we had together. I am now fairly certain that Jean is thinking about last night, about how he felt when I was inside him; not only do I get memories of that moment and of our blending together, I can also physically feel his asshole clenching with anticipation.

I am suddenly tempted to try to take control of his hand, to guide it myself to help him come. I want to participate, I find, to have sex with him one last time, but I must hold myself back. Jean groans, low and long, his hips bucking up into his grip, and I wonder if he senses my desire somehow.

“P-please,” he whines suddenly. “A-actually, can you . . . ?”

“It’s not separating,” I remind him, though already I desperately want him to ask again. _We could try separating another time . . . but if we must be bound together, would it not be nice to explore the possibilities?_

Jean whimpers and nods. “Yeah, let’s . . . let’s ah! Just try.”

His eyes close and he lets go just enough for me to slide into more control, guiding his hand to stroke more slowly, all the way up and down his shaft. He grunts and shudders as his body tenses. He enjoys this, I realize, feeling like he has given himself over to something else, realizing that he is not alone, that someone else is having pleasure with him . . .

I open his mouth to sigh myself, overwhelmed with how much I desire this too. Humans are so strange and so fascinating.

Jean gasps when I take my hand away and starts to complain, but quiets when I roll our shared body over on to his stomach and slowly put three fingers from his other hand into his mouth. He moans around them, and his (our?) dick twitches, feeling impossibly heavy and hard. We’ll explode soon, I know it, but I want to feel—and feel him feel—filled first, I want to give him his fantasy as best I can from within his body . . .

He lets out a muffled cry when I press a wet finger to his ass, pushing it in slowly. Ah, yes! I have to gasp too. We’re tight, and yet it sucks in the finger hungrily. I go deeper, breathing heavily as I search for—ah! Yes! Overwhelming sensation that leaves us trembling and frotting helplessly against the blankets. I see why Jean wanted me to be careful; it’s almost too much, so good it hurts! I pull back and add a second finger, sighing as our body accepts the intrusion. Then I brush against the special spot inside us again.

“Ar-Armin!” Jean manages. It is weird that someone else says my name with my mouth . . . this can’t be good for expulsion. “Armin! Please! C-can . . . can you touch me now? Please?”

My stomach flips pleasantly every time he asks so politely. Teasing him more would be cruel, and yet I do not want this to end just yet . . . so as I grab our dick and begin to gently stroke it, overcome by Jean’s gasping pleas, I push a third finger in.

Jean almost screams, his whole body going rigid. I would be afraid I was hurting him, if I could not also feel his pleasure for myself . . . as my own pleasure almost? Somehow, he does not come yet though; with herculean effort he holds it back so that he can experience me stretch him. My stroking quickens in spite of myself.

“You f-feel . . . feel . . . feel g-good,” I mumble, heart pounding as the line between the two of us blurs beyond recognition. I am Jean, completely out of control of my own body, possessed by a spirit who wants to pleasure me until I cry and melt into the sheets. I am Armin, gasping as I experience sex for the first time in many years in a real human body, basking in Jean’s cries of my name . . .

I press, I push, I stroke, I rub—I go as deep as I possibly can, triggering every sensation until my body is trembling and overstimulated, unable to hold itself back and---

“AAAAAAH!” Jean cries, white light flashing before his eyes. As soon as he crashes over the edge I feel incredibly light, like air, floating, disembodied . . . like his cum, I realize that I am spilling out from him, leaving his pale, shaking body behind on the bed as I become my own substance once more.

He was right.

And I feel empty.

[](http://zupimages.net/viewer.php?id=19/44/742w.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy again! Thanks for reading another chapter
> 
> . . . so I can't stop writing plot, I'm sorry ^^' I also know that this version of Eren is may be a bit controversial but I'm thinking of him how he's been in the plot lately, the way he treated Armin and Mikasa . . . well, you see that's been popping up in all my writing these days, I'm a bit stuck on it. I hope Armin is at least cute and that the smut is nice?? Does that make up for it ^^'?
> 
> Thanks again to wonderful Mirandafandomette (on ao3 and on tumblr) for the amazing drawings!!!! And thanks to twoboys-onesoul.tumblr.com for setting up Jearmaween also!!!! And thanks to you for reading!!
> 
> Apologies for the bad German and bad Latin; I really tried my best with both (I thought too hard about the Latin, it's actually a weird phrase to translate into Latin--what I have says more like "If one does not struggle/earn it, one cannot overcome." The German is all I could come up with after a year of study some two years ago lol


	3. Act III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean confronts Armin . . . and then confronts him again, in shower!
> 
> For the prompts costume party/free day of Jearmaween 2019 <3 (I love the rhyme lol)

“So, then Frau Reiss will come down the stairs, and you’ll play the thunderclap noise, all the guests will scream and shit their pants, and then Thomas will turn off the lights for five seconds and . . .”

I nod absently but don’t take any notes on my laptop about what Ymir is saying. My mind keeps wandering back to Schloss Reiss’ actual ghost, who I haven’t talked to for two days . . . or about the amount of time since I pretty much literally fucked him out of my body.

Or he fucked himself out? . . . it’s really confusing.

I know he’s still around; my Kindle wasn’t where I left it last night, and I glimpsed his pale, translucent form pacing around the museum gardens this morning (I guess no one else saw him there because no one else has mentioned it . . .). So, at least I know I didn’t kill him—or, I guess re-kill him?—after our weird merger. That’s a relief.

But fuck it, I wish he wouldn’t avoid me!

Am I upset about losing control of my body? Yes. That was freaky. Waking up trapped inside my own mind, seeing and feeling what my body experienced while being unable to move my own limbs, was awful. I’m also still not quite sure I believe that he didn’t know—or guess—that he’d possess me if we had sex. Well, he seemed genuinely sorry when I first asked him about it, and he did cooperate with trying to separate us . . . so probably he hadn’t _meant_ to do it. Still, I’d feel more comfortable about the whole damn thing (or as comfortable as anyone could be in this weirdass situation) if we could just _talk_ about it.

I also keep getting stuck on the memories I saw, the ones involving that Eren guy. Apart from just being an asshat, it seems clear to me from what I could gather that whatever weapon he’d wanted had destroyed the castle. And probably killed both Armin and him! It’s so far removed from the legends that sprung up about this place that I can’t wrap my mind around it. Love? People really thought that you could obliterate a place like this with _love_?

People really have their heads up their asses sometimes.

And speaking of asses (worst transition), I also can’t stop replaying the sex I had with Armin in my mind; it’s looped on constant repeat, and I’m walking around half-hard all the time, which is just confusing and awkward. Maybe my brain is fixated on it because it’s trying to process that it really happened. I had sex with a ghost . . . _twice_. And it was good, and now I dream about his ghostly touch, about the intensity of feeling so out of control . . .

God, I can’t make up my own damn mind! Did I hate being out of control, or did I love it?

I guess, like many things, it depends on context.

“Yooohooo, earth to Jean!” I startle as Ymir snaps her fingers under my nose. “I know you’ve been sick, but this party is for the donors, so you gotta be sharp!”

“Uhhh . . . yeah,” I grunt, typing “be sharp” on my notes for the party.

Ymir arches a thin eyebrow at me, her cat eyes narrowing. “Uh huh. You just fill me with confidence, Jeanie-boy.” And she pats my shoulder as if she’s genuinely consoling me.

Okay, I’m doomed.

Sure enough, after she finishes going over our respective roles for the big donor costume party next week, she has her PA Bertolt wheel in a large rack of hangers full of medieval-esque costumes in bright colors. She looks at me with an evil glint in her eye, then pulls the tightest pair of hose I have ever seen off the rack . . . and a codpiece.

“No,” I say immediately. Okay, so not only are these things going to show off every inch of my gangly legs, each leg is also a different color . . . in this case, bright blue and orange. And that’s to say nothing of the codpiece.

“It’s period authentic,” she says innocently, brandishing the horrid things at me. I have no idea if she’s right. God fucking dammit, this has to be harassment, even if she is a lesbian. I cross my arms over my chest. Ymir finally sighs and rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, the cod-piece was just a joke. But you do have to wear these tights. And a tunic. As do all the other dudes,” she adds to a chorus of groans.

Well, if everyone else will be wearing them, I guess I won’t be alone? At least it’s a living . . . and as sound tech for the evening, I’ll mostly be out of the way in a corner with a soundboard disguised as something medieval, like an altar or a baptism font or a statue of a gargoyle . . . I sigh and take them.

“Now, go try them on and tell me if they fit.”

“What? Now?” I sputter.

She shoots me a glare as she starts dispensing versions of these torture devices to the other staff members. I sigh and stand up. “I call the bathroom first!” Thomas yells, practically sprinting out of the museum atrium (where we’ve gathered) and to the men’s room.

I shrug and stomp off towards the front doors. “Fine, I’m going to change in the cottage. I’ll tell you if it fits.” I turn and point an imperious finger at Ymir. “No one will get to see me in this until the day of.”

As I stalk off, she calls after me, “If you rip it, I take it out of your paycheck!”

I resist the urge to flip her off. That threat about my paycheck might be serious, after all.

Walking back to the cottage, I can’t help but glance at the gardens. There’s no sign of Armin. My stomach sinks, but I keep walking down the little path to my temporary home. Once inside, I close the door behind me and slouch against it with a sigh. Then I look at the “period authentic” monstrosity in my hands and pull a face.

“How can she honestly expect me to wear this,” I grumble, shuffling over to the bathroom with a sigh. I start unbuttoning my shirt, and then abruptly remember myself and glance around for Armin.

Of course, he’s nowhere to be seen. That doesn’t mean he’s not around though . . . my eyes fall to my Kindle, which is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, distinctly _not_ where I left it this morning.

“Okay, Armin,” I call, unceremoniously tossing the costume on the floor. “I know you’re there. Can we just . . . talk?”

I hold my breath for several seconds, staring at the Kindle to remind myself that I’m not making this shit up, I did meet a ghost named Armin, and he is here . . . somewhere . . .

“What do you want to talk about?”

I startle, for once actually surprised that he appears behind me. Surprised and . . . well, relieved, to be honest. I hadn’t been certain he was going to respond.

I turn to face him and am shocked to find him so translucent and wispy in my house. Usually he’s so much better at manifesting himself here. “Are you weak?” I find myself asking, unable to hide my worry. “Because we, uh, un-merged?”

“I have considered that possibility,” he says, voice whisper-thin. He hovers above the ground, feet vanishing into mist. “But I am not exactly sure.”

I take a step towards him automatically, my hand reaching for his and . . . through his. Ice pricks my skin. I wince.

He looks at my face, blue eyes wide and searching. “You’re not . . . angry?”

Sighing, I plop down on the edge of my bathtub, running a hand through my hair. “I . . . am. But it’s complicated.”

Armin nods, twisting his long sleeves between his fingers. “I did not know that I would possess you . . . I never tried sex with anyone before in this form, and I had not ever managed a possession when I tried other ways—”

I hold up a hand to stop his explanations. “You know what? I believe you though I don’t know how to feel about the fact that you’ve tried with someone else. . . er, well. Point is, I don’t think you manipulated me into sleeping with you. Really.” Now that I see him again, I feel even more certain. He seems so contrite and concerned about potentially violating my will . . . I’m not angry at him, really. I’m more upset and surprised that something like that could happen.

He gives me the tiniest smile. A bubble of warmth expands in my chest. However, the conversation is just beginning. “I’m not mad at you. But I have questions. Can you answer them for me?”

The mist around his feet increases. Is it a sign that he’s anxious? In any case, he has trouble meeting my gaze.

“I can try.”

Well, that’s something.

I take a deep breath.

“What happened to Schloss Reise?”

For a moment, I worry I’ve pushed my luck. He stares past my shoulder, eyes distant and almost colorless. Then he begins to speak in a careful monotone, evidently lost somewhere in his mind.

“I was the foster son of Lord Grisha Jäger, who intended me to become his son’s steward. I was given an education so that I could help manage the castle and lands . . . but my grandfather also trained me as an alchemist, in secret. I shared my knowledge with Eren though, Grisha’s son. We were friends as children. I was fascinated with learning more about how the world worked, and you know how children are.” His mouth twitches sardonically. “We share our passions with one another.” He sighs, his outline fading and blurring even further. “He certainly appreciated me for my knowledge by the end.”

I grimace in sympathy. “Why did Eren want a weapon?”

Armin purses his lips. “The Jägers had a long-standing feud with the Marley family. Marleyans killed his mother in a raid . . . he wanted to finally be free of them, once and for all.”

“What kind of weapon was it?” I prompt him when he trails off.

“That is difficult to explain. The precise elements and chemical reactions . . . they were unstable and unpleasant. Eren wanted a weapon that would rumble the ground beneath his enemies’ feet, upend their castles, and make their lands unusable . . . it never even occurred to him that it could destroy him too . . . that _I _could destroy him.”

There’s not really another word for it: Armin _ripples_ with a flash of some emotion. Anger? Pride? Guilt?

My throat sticks, but I have to ask. “Did you do it on purpose?”

He blinks down at me, abashed. “It did occur to me. But no. It was an accident.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Armin notices my reaction and drifts backwards. “I did kill him though. And . . . many, many others.”

“He caused his own death,” I say with a conviction that surprises even me. But once the words are out of my mouth, I’m certain they're true . . . and now I am angry, actually. _For _Armin, not _at_ him. “I saw him in your memories, I saw how he forced you to keep working on that weapon.”

Armin shakes his head violently. “It was _my_ hand that mixed the elements, it is _my_ conscience that is stained by this!” he practically wails, his unearthly voice causing the hairs on my neck to stand on end.

“No, listen!” I insist. “You stood up to him, you said you didn’t want to do it. Yet he kept making you!”

“I did not have to! I could have stopped and—”

“And what?” I snap. When did I stand up? All I know is that I’m pacing the tiny space of the bathroom. “Been thrown in the dungeon? Been killed? And then what would have happened, hm? He’d have found someone else, right? Someone with less scruples . . .”

“But maybe it would have stopped him!”

I throw my hands up in the air with exasperation. Why can’t Armin see? “Fanatics like that don’t just stop because they hit one roadblock, Armin!”

His eyes flash red, and that pauses me. I’ve seen Armin become more or less diluted, but I’ve never seen him _change_ color. I have to admit, that’s actually frightening. “But maybe he would not have found someone else,” Armin hisses with some barely contained emotion. “I could have stopped him, and I did not! Accept it, Jean. It is my fault!”

I take a deep breath and consider how to phrase what’s on my mind so as not to distress him more. “But Armin,” I finally begin, trying to keep my voice soft, “would you have been building a weapon at all, if not for him?”

There’s a long silence. Armin dissolves further into mist, and for a horrible moment I worry I’ve broken him somehow . . . but then he begins to re-solidify, color seeping back into his clothes and his hair. “Maybe . . . maybe not. I think not, I mean.”

I nod and hold out a hand to him, my heart in my throat. He stares at it for a minute then, slowly, tentatively, manifests a hand and puts it in mine. I flinch at the cold, but I hold on, even giving it a small squeeze.

“Armin, I think you need to leave the castle. To get away from your past.”

He stares at me as if I’ve sprouted an extra head.

“Jean,” he says slowly, as if talking to a deliberately obtuse child. “I have been trying to do that for centuries. It is impossible.”

I give him a small smile. “It’s not.”

His eyes widen as what I’m suggesting apparently sinks in.

“You can’t g-give me your body!” He splutters.

“No shit,” I snort. “But I could share it.”

His hand melts in mine and I give a small cry as a new chill surges through me. He floats away from me, towards the sink. “What did I say? Why are you upset?”

“Why would you do something like that for me?” His words are strained, like they hurt to say. “Do you . . . do you pity me?”

Oh.

I rub the back of my neck, weighing my words carefully. It’s a bit difficult for me; usually I just say whatever pops into my head. But I can see I’ve touched some kind of nerve, and I want to make sure he understands exactly why I would offer something like this.

“Look, it’s not pity. I just, well, like you. It’s nice and interesting to spend time with you, freaky though it is to talk to a ghost. I won’t stay in this castle for the rest of my life and . . . well, I wouldn’t want to lose your, er, friendship. I was also thinking, like, while I’m here, we could experiment. Like, what would happen if we, uh, separated, while I was outside the bounds of the castle? Would you come back here? Would you be free finally? As long as it’s always consensual and I have the most control over my body while we’re together, like, why not try?”

The edges of Armin’s body become more defined as he considers. Some tension leaves me shoulders. He’s actually considering.

“You like . . . spending time with me?”

I grin. “Yeah, even though its trippy. I’ve learned so much from watching you Google things, like, you make me curious about the world again. Which even college couldn’t actually do, so congratulations, I guess!”

He smiles at that, but it quickly falters. He glances down at his feet—ah, his feet exist again! He must be feeling better? He looks a bit nervous still though.

“You . . . you would not feel bad about . . . well, _how_ we merge?”

I burst out laughing, startling him. He starts to blur again, so I rush to explain. “No, dude. Shit. Like . . . the merging is, uh, great. In fact, I’d like to ‘merge’ a lot. The aftereffects are a bit freaky, but like the actual process, well . . . I can’t really get it out . . . of my mind . . .” I trail off, suddenly embarrassed. Then I clear my throat, my heart pounding against my ribs. “Uh . . . do you, er, mind how we merge?”

“No!” Armin says so quickly that my heat rushes to my face. “No, I really like it too!”

He takes a step towards me, hesitant but smiling. I meet him in the middle of the bathroom, a bit shy myself. When I look into his eyes, they’re very blue, and I realize that he’s manifesting . . . taking the hint, I put my hands on either side of his ice-cold face and bend to kiss him.

It’s immediately very intense. The release of all of our emotions combined with the relief of knowing we are both wanted, I suppose. Armin presses close to me, hands around my waist, his tongue pushing into my mouth. His touch makes me shiver, and I realize I want him right now, even though maybe it’s not the best time to be possessed . . . fuck it, can’t a guy think with his dick sometimes?”

Grabbing his forearms gently, I tug him back towards the bath. “Do you want to, uh, try something?” I ask, a bit breathless.

He nods, following me with a hungry look that makes my stomach twist pleasantly.

“Your skin . . . it’s so cold that, well, I was actually kind of wondering . . . how it would feel mixed with something warmer?”

He raises an eyebrow at me, comprehending. “You want to have sex under the water?”

I nod. “If you’d like to try? And also like, to see if you always possess me when we have sex, of course.”

“Of course,” he says archly, then leans forward and pulls down my collar to softly kiss my neck. I moan, my hands clutching at his shoulders, sinking into the yielding substance of his ghostly body. Obviously enjoying how quickly I come apart for him, he teases me further by brushing slow circles around one of my nipples through my shirt. I gasp, my hips bucking against him.

Then his teeth nip my skin, tiny icicle pricks, and my whole body stiffens with desperate wanting.

Warmth floods me when he steps back, leaving me flushed and panting. Apparently pleased with the effect he has on me, he points to the bath. “Well, get it ready then.”

Turned on by the order, I quickly move the Kindle and put the shower-head into the hanger on the wall. I turn the faucets with shaking fingers, cursing as the water rumbles in the pipes above me, but takes its sweet time coming through the shower. Armin takes the opportunity to stand behind me, kissing my nape while he reaches around to finish unbuttoning my shirt. As I’m gasping and whining under his chilled touch, steaming water suddenly erupts from the shower-head, splashing into my hair and on my face. As suspected, the contrast between the heat of the water and the ice of Armin’s skin pleasantly shocks my system.

Fuck, I’m so hard.

Armin turns me around to finish stripping me down. I see that he’s already vanished his clothes . . . sexy. I lick at his neck and shoulders as he fumbles with my belt, and his little airy whimpers stir the desire pooling in my stomach. Once we’re both naked, he gives me a little playful shove towards the shower.

“Bossy,” I pretend grumble, but I step into the tub and pull him in after me.

Hot water pelts my face and shoulders as I stand kissing his frozen lips, so I grab at him to keep my knees from buckling. Shit, this feels better than I imagined even, my skin overstimulated by the competing sensations. Armin gets a bit desperate in my arms, biting my lip and grabbing my ass. His own dick is solidifies, and I shudder as I find myself trapped between his icy grip on my butt and his cold erection against my own.

We rub against each other for a while, panting and grinding, kissing sloppily with open mouths. Then I feel his finger creeping toward my asshole.

“Yes,” I gasp into his neck. “Yes, please.”

Armin moans, a sound so soft it’s almost lost under the hiss of the water, and pushes an icy finger into me.

It’s so hard to concentrate on kissing when he’s filling me, stretching me to accept who knows how many ghost fingers. Then he bends to lick one of my nipples. I have to cry out at that, as my chest is apparently super sensitive to his cold tongue. Hot water splashes my shoulders, creating an intense counterpoint.

“Do you want more?” Armin breathes, mouthing his way back up my chest and to my neck. He kisses softly underneath my ear, another contrast to the firmness with which he rocks his finger(s?) deeper inside of me. I open my mouth to reply just as he presses against my prostate.

I let out a strangled, inarticulate cry. Fuck. My ass is going to ache all the time if I stay with Armin . . . but I want it. Holy fuck, I want it.

“Y-yeah. Yeaah, more.”

He nudges my prostate again and I whine. “Really? You really want more?”

My eyes are closed but I can feel the smug grin in his voice. God, he does he want me to beg? Fine. “P-please?”

I’m rewarded with a nip on the ear, then a passionate kiss on the mouth. I assert myself somewhat by licking the yielding roof of his mouth, even though it numbs my tongue. He moans and bucks against me, then pulls away to gently turn me towards the shower wall.

Warm water spurts my face as I grip the slippery tiles for support. Armin’s freezing hands firmly grab my hips and then he’s pushing inside me, slowly, deeply, and I’m making all kinds of embarrassing cries that I hope are at least somewhat muffled by the sound of the water.

As we fit together and I get used to the intrusion, I feel his dick stiffening within me. It’s so cold, my ass tenses, even as the water coursing over the rest of my body warms me back up. Armin’s airy arms wrap around my chest, and I feel the soft kiss of his mouth on my nape. And then slowly, carefully, he starts to move.

The force of his hips presses me against the tiles, and the grouting actually kind of stimulates my nipples a bit. I feel . . . stuck, but in a pleasant way? My body is experiencing so many different types of stimulation, it's hard for my mind to fully process . . . so I just kind of give up. I let Armin hold me, fuck me, unable to do much more than moan as his skin once again starts to blur into mine, the coldness of his possession competing with the heat of the water. I just want to stand like this forever, I realize, as Armin’s groans resound through my bathroom.

“Jean!” He pants, his hips moving more erratically now, “J-Jeaan! You f-feel, ah!”

It’s almost too much when he says my name; I groan into the tiles. He’s deep within me now, in more ways than one, and the experience of our bodies melting together as his dick bumps up against my prostate causes me to cry out. “I h-have to t-ouch,” I gasp out, my hand sliding clumsily down the tiles to try to reach my dick . . . but then a cold, solid hand is wrapping my erection, stroking slowly but firmly.

“Armin!” I cry, my head lolling back against his shoulder, which he renders somewhat solid to hold me. Water splashes my face as Armin fucks and strokes, pushes and pulls, and it’s so much, it’s so, so, so much—

“Fuck, yeah!” I groan. “Like that, like that . . .ohhhhhh, Ar-Ar-.”

“No!” He whimpers, hips pounding faster and faster, losing control himself. “No, I, oh, I noo, ah!” His hand fades in and out, most of his concentration centering on his own dick. But with apparently the last grasp of his concentration, he hardens his fingers and strokes rapidly in time with his fucking—

“AH!” I scream, shaking with a violent orgasm, just as Armin shudders behind me, then the world is dissolving, blurring—

—I do not exactly go unconscious this time. The water seems to prevent that. Ahh! I forgot that to be human means I need to breathe. Sinking to my knees, I turn the taps until the water stops, and then I take a moment to compose myself, my chest rising and falling rapidly. My legs—well, Jean’s legs—still tremble from the aftershocks of orgasm, and I look down at his cock to see it shrinking, still a bit sticky with cum. Tentatively, I _feel_ around in my mind, and register his sleeping consciousness. So, the transfer tires him. Or perhaps the sex does. Certainly his body aches with exhaustion . . . or is that the sensation of _my_ orgasm? It is very hard to tell.

Fingers shaking, I brush damp hair out of my face and blink around the empty bathroom. I allow myself a small smile.

I can be with Jean. And Jean wants to help me.

After all these years, I am not alone!

Suddenly there’s a violent rap on the door, and I sit up so quickly I bang my knee on the tap.

“Jean! What. The. Fuck. Is taking you so damn long?” Ymir’s muffled voice somehow seeps into the house. The walls here have always been way too thin. “Does it fit?”

Does what fit?

My eyes fall on the small pile of clothes Jean had brought with him into the bathroom before talking to me. Was he supposed to be trying them on?

“J-just a moment!” I call as loudly as I can, still a bit unnerved to speak in Jean’s voice. Stumbling and sliding, I stand up and haphazardly fit his tall, gangly body into the tight clothes. Ah, they are supposed to be fashions from my time. I remember that it is the time of year the current occupants of the castle throw a party for people who believe in the silly story about the ghost lady. Well . . . I suppose since I _do_ exist, it is not that silly. The fit of the tunic and hose is a bit snug and they are missing some of the ties that would allow me to adjust them, but I think overall the effect is correct. I walk as fast as I can to door and pull it open with as much of a smile as I can muster.

“What do you think?” I ask, hoping I do not sound like a ghost possessing the body of the man he just had sex with it. “It works?”

“Uhh . . .” Oh, no. I have done something wrong, Ymir is staring at me and frowning. “Yeah . . . glad you um, like it, apparently.”

I give her the thumbs up gesture I have seen many visitors do recently, then realize that is probably too forward for Jean and try to manage his typically stern expression.

Ymir just looks me over, her eyebrows rising into her hairline. “Do I want to know why your hair is wet?” I open my mouth to try to come up with some answer, but she raises her hands in a warding gesture and takes a step back. “No. No, I don’t. Glad you’re, um, enjoying yourself, Jeanie. Now take those off and like . . . don’t mess them up too much before the party. And get back to work!” And with that, she abruptly turns on her heel and rushes back up the hill to the castle.

In the back of my mind, Jean’s awareness stirs. _What the fuck did you—oh, fuck me, did she see you like this?!_

“Was she not supposed to?”

My seemingly innocent question earns a long tirade about how exactly I am supposed to behave while in primary control of his body.

* * *

Despite my misstep, Jean allows me to join him in his body during the party. After a few days of experimenting (. . . lots and lots of experimenting . . . ), we learn that not only can I smell and feel things when I possess him, I can also taste again. This has proved more complicated than I initially anticipated, as food over the years has changed drastically, and I actually find it unpleasant—mostly it is too sweet or two chewy, and even the fruits and vegetables have altered in taste and texture significantly. However, this party prides itself in serving “period accurate food,” so Jean agrees that I can possess him and try it to see what I think.

I should not have worried that the taste of it would give me nostalgia; as we sip a cup of spiced wine while Jean manages the ambient “ghostly” sounds for the evening, I reflect that flavors may be one thing that can never be quite recovered from the past.

The party still ends up being very pleasant when experienced from within a human body. I enjoy the feel of sweat when we dance, the smells of the golden flowers they have strung along the staircases, and the general giddiness of the crowd, although Jean is evidently grumpy by all the presumptions of these “rich fucks.” He starts to feel a bit better when, on his way to the bathroom, he stumbles upon Ymir making out with the heiress Frau Reiss—the evening’s “ghost”—which he views as potentially embarrassing enough to make them even. Even though Ymir seems flustered at being caught, she later finds him at the buffet table and tells him there is no shame at having a dalliance with “a sexy posh lady.”

“At least I’m not aroused by tights,” she mumbles, wandering off into the crowd before Jean can manage a suitable retort.

After the evening wraps up and the guests go home, Jean (still in his costume . . . maybe Ymir is onto something about those tights . . .) grabs a flashlight and starts walking up the hilly path into a dark copse of trees.

“Where are we going?” I ask, perplexed. I was hoping to go back to the cottage and masturbate, to separate again while experience Jean arching back into his soft bed . . .

“You’ll see,” is all he cryptically responds. I sigh and let him lead us onward, until he finally stops by a little gardener’s shed.

And that is when I realize where we are. This shed is outside the boundaries of my curse, just barely. Within the past decades I have stared at it with surprising longing, wondering exactly what it is that keeps me from just walking over to touch it.

“Oh,” is all I manage. Jean smiles tentatively.

“We don’t have to try tonight, but I figured it’s a time when no one will come looking for me. And this place seems perfect, right? Just a bit outside of the boundary you told me about. It’s probably best to experiment with separating close to that line, right?”

Yes, it is very logical. That is one of the things I like so much about Jean, he really has a good head on his shoulders . . . and yet, am I ready?

“We really don’t have to try tonight,” he adds softly,.“We can go home, lay out on the bed, fuck like normal?”

I shake our head, squaring my shoulders.

“No, we should try.”

Still, I find myself nervous, struggling to relax even after we have fit ourselves into the shed and turned on the hanging light; even after we splay ourself out on a tarp on a tiny bench within; even when Jean’s hand is rubbing his dick through his clothes pants, his chest raising and falling as he hardens.

“You still sure?” he gasps, feeling my hesitation. I nod and then, to prove my determination, I take control of his hand and slip into his tights, wrapping around his dick to stroke it gently, slowly, while he uses his free fingers to rub at his nipples through his tunic.

“You kn-know what I’m gonna ask you for,” he gasps out as his dick becomes slick with precum. Our stomach tightens with desire, and I feel his ass tensing. He always wants something in his ass, this Jean. Well, I live—or, I exist, more accurately—to serve.

He gives me control of his other hand and takes over stroking his dick. We have learned to be cooperative in these internal sex sessions, and I find that I really enjoy it. Tonight I will push, he will pull. The idea excites me as I eagerly reach towards his asshole, dampening it with spit-soaked fingers. As I push in, we both seem to moan at the same time through his mouth, and he slows his strokes to the tempo of my fucking. The tights pool around our thighs, and I love the stretch and strain of them there, the desperation of fucking in clothes . . .

“Jean!” I cry out as the speed of his hand increases.

“An-another finger,” he pants. “Pl-please, ah! Armin!”

I comply, and his ass yields. As desire and pleasure overwhelm me, I find I do not have space in my mind to worry what will happen when we separate. Without prompting, I push a third finger into Jean’s ass and rock against his prostrate, drawing long, low groans out of his mouth. “I . . . just want to c-come,” I whisper. And Jean tightens his fingers around his dick, pumping it for all he’s worth, shuddering and gasping as I continue fuck us with my fingers, trapping us between two intense sensations—

“N-OOOHHH,” we cry almost as one, and then I’m light as feather—free as the air, and floating upwards, upwards, through the roof of the small shed and drifting back towards the barrier . . .

Panicking, I put up my hands and try to push myself back from it, kicking at it with feet I will to solidify, to hold me out here . . . and then it happens.

I stop moving.

“Jean!” I cry, just as I hear the creak of the shed door opening underneath me. “We . . . we did it! I’m free!”

He whoops for joy and I beam down at him, laughing when I see that his tights are now around his ankles. “Will you still travel with me?” He asks abruptly, a note of worry creeping into his voice.

I smile, and, maybe it is just a phantom feeling, an echo of Jean’s humanity reverberating through me, but suddenly I feel warm.

“Yes. I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks sooooooo much for reading!!!! And as always, thanks again to mirandafandomette (here and on tumblr) for their amazing art and for beta reading/doing this project with me!!! And thanks twoboys-onesoul on tumblr for hosting this event!!! And thanks for all your kudos and comments, here and on tumblr <3 It's meant a lot to meeee <3
> 
> . . . I think I should tag this fic bottom Jean haha, and all the places he bottoms . . . YmiHisu cameo as well :) I hope Ymir doesn't come off too harassing errr? I just always like to put her in my fics, I have so much fun writing her!!


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